Stay
by givemekevinbacon
Summary: "You tell yourself that he loves you. And he does, at least you think he does, but that doesn't make it okay—and you know that because every night you come home to an empty bed and a guilt ridden conscious." A tragically written AU where House is married to Stacy, but can't seem to stay away from Cuddy. Oneshot.


_A/N: Because I am a terrible person, I've written two one shots in the past week and haven't touched the epilogue to Only Fools Rush In (I'm getting there, I promise!). I'm saving the delicious holiday fic for Christmas Eve, so to tide you over I've come up with this little nugget. It's different from the style that I usually write in, but I'm really pleased with the way it turned out-I hope you are too!_

_**Note: **House and Stacy got married after the infarction. There is no real time-line for this, seeing as how this is an AU. Told from Cuddy's point of view. _

* * *

You tell yourself that this is wrong—that he's married, and you should stop before it's too late. But you know that's impossible, because it was too late to stop before it even started, and you couldn't stop now even if you wanted to.

You tell yourself that he loves you. And he does, at least you think he does, but that doesn't make it okay—and you know that because every night you come home to an empty bed and a guilt ridden conscious.

And he goes home to his wife.

A wife who considers you to be a good friend.

A wife who considers you to be a good person.

A wife who you have a standing lunch date with every Tuesday at one in the afternoon.

He tells you that their marriage is a formality, a marriage that was built off of guilt and lies, and he may not be able to escape from it forever, but being with you, even if it's just for a few hours, is enough of an escape.

But it's not enough for you.

_And I'll be begging you baby, _

_Beg you not to leave _

_But I'll be left here waiting_

_With my heart on my sleeve_

It takes a few months, but one night you manage to muster up the courage to say something. His arm is wrapped around your waist, his head resting on the crook of your shoulder. You don't face him, because that would hurt too much, and you're no masochist—even if your actions these past few months suggest otherwise.

"Why doesn't this bother you?" you whisper, your eyes closed and your fist clenching the sheet to keep yourself from crying.

He pauses, and you take a deep breath, because you're afraid of what he might say. That it doesn't bother him because it's just sex, because he hasn't fallen as hard as you have. That he still loves _her_, and if he still loves her, he's not doing anything wrong.

You know they could get over an affair that was based on sex. You know Stacy, you know she would go to some type of counseling, chalk it up to House being trapped in the body of a high school senior, and move along with their lives. While you on the other hand, were left in the cold, with nothing to look forward to but an empty bed.

Which if you think about it, isn't all that different from what your life is now. And somehow that makes it even worse.

"It does bother me," he finally answers, and you open your eyes as you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding in. You feel his hand running up and down your back, and you blink back the tears that have been threatening to come since the second you laid eyes on him earlier that night. "But losing you bothers me more."

You turn to face him, and he's smiling down at you, which only makes you feel worse, because it's a smile that Stacy has told you about numerous times. A smile that she hasn't seen in a long time, and suddenly you know why.

"It doesn't have to be this way," you say, praying that he'll understand the meaning you've laced underneath your words.

You sigh when he does, but gives you an answer that makes your heart ache like it's never ached before.

"Yes it does."

_Oh for the next time we'll be here_

_Seems like a million years_

_And I think I'm dying_

It takes you about six months to get over the guilt. You no longer flinch when you pass Stacy in the halls, and your Tuesday lunches are as normal as ever. Wilson gives you lingering looks in the hallways and board meetings, but you ignore him, as usual. You don't know how much he knows, and you're not going to be the one to bring it up.

You're walking out of the hospital doors when she stops you. You're frozen in your spot, because you're sure she knows exactly where you're going, even though he tells you that she isn't suspicious.

"Lisa," she calls out. And you pause, turning around and forcing a smile that she assumes is genuine. "Do you have a minute?" she asks

You pretend to check your watch, as if you're running late for a yoga class or dinner with your sister, when really, you're running late for a secret rendezvous with her husband.

"Of course," you say, nodding your head and keeping your smile intact.

"I know he's not your responsibility," she begins, and your breath hitches, because you know exactly the _he _she is referring to, "but if you see House, could you tell him I'm looking for him? I'm sure he has a patient or is stuck in the clinic, but I need to speak with him."

You swallow hard, nodding your head once more as you force yourself to look her in the eyes.

"Absolutely," you say, "but you'll probably see him before I do."

You watch as she nods her head and bites down on her lower lip, her eyes darting directly to the ground before and then back up to yours. And for the first time, you're not sure she believes the lie that you've been trying so hard to perfect.

So you make up an excuse as to why you have to leave—a yoga class, or dinner at your sister's house, it doesn't really matter—and you rush off to your car.

You arrive at the predestined lavish hotel faster than you ever have before, and you don't bother to check in at the front guest because the text you have on your phone lets you know that he's already there.

This time he's the one waiting, and you're not sure why, but it makes you feel powerful and in control. You toy with the idea of drawing out your arrival, making him wait for you like you've waited for him so many times, but you don't.

You simply press the button to the elevator, that feeling of power and control fleeing from your mind.

You're alone on the elevator, surrounded only by your thoughts and your perpetual sidekick, guilt. Although this time the guilt is there for a different reason. Because for the first time, you didn't feel guilty about lying to Stacy.

The lie rolled off your tongue with such ease that is scared you, because you weren't thinking about how much pain it was going to cause her—you were thinking about how good it was going to make you feel. You weren't thinking about her.

You were thinking about _him._

You were thinking about_ you. _

So you barely let him speak when you opened the door. You weren't timid or uptight; you were bold—you knew exactly what you wanted, and you were going to get it.

You lift up your blouse in a hasty fashion, now dressed only in your sheer, black-laced bra and skin-tight pencil skirt. His eyes widen and you smirk as you walk over to meet him, your heels clicking against the hardwood floors with every betraying step you take.

His hands are immediately on your waist, and you can feel them moving up towards your breasts when you forcefully press your lips to his and walk him towards the edge of the bed.

His knees buckle against the edge of the bed and you pull your lips away from his long enough to gently push him onto the bed with your palm. You slip out of your heels and climb on top of him, hiking your skirt up to reveal the thigh-high stocking you'd put on that morning in anticipation of this very moment.

He gives you that _smile_ again, and you smile back, hovering over him before you say:

"Your wife is looking for you."

Your lips are back on his before he could even think about responding. And you tell yourself that this is the way it has to be, because he's right—what they were doing was worth the guilt, and love was worth the risk.

You don't think about what he would have done if you _had _given him time to respond.

_What do I have to do to make you see,_

_She can't love you like me?_

You're tangled up in him—physically and mentally—, your hair sprawled out on his chest and his fingers running up and down your arm when the phone on the bedside table starts to ring.

The ringer isn't coming from your phone, but you recognize it and start to wonder if he has a special ringer for you. He looks from you to the phone, as if he's debating on what he should do. You roll your eyes and decide to make it easy for him.

You untangle yourself from him, dragging the sheet with you as you walk towards the bathroom. You pause at the nightstand and pick up the phone, wordlessly placing it in his hand as you continue your walk of shame.

The sheet falls at the edge of the bathroom door when you hear the faint sound of a forced hello coming from his lips.

_When she calls you will go_

_There is one thing you should know_

_We don't have to live this way_

_Baby, why don't you stay_

You come out of the bathroom to find him buttoning up his shirt. You find your bra and quickly fasten it, not daring to look him in the eyes.

"You're leaving?" you say, although you phrase it more as a statement than a question.

He nods regretfully, and you scoff, which causes a defeated look to come across his face. You do your best to ignore it; he's not the victim here.

In the back of your mind, you know you're not either.

"I would stay if I could," he says as he finished buttoning his shirt. "You know that."

You shake your head.

"I don't know that. Because you never have."

He pauses, and you shake your head once more, because you've broken the unspoken rule that you've both somehow agreed upon. You know you don't have a right to complain, but you want to do it anyway.

Because you no longer feel in control.

"Cuddy…" he says softly, and you hold up your hand because you can't bear to hear him speak your name.

"You could tell her," you interrupt.

You watch as he closes his eyes and his hands fall to his sides, and you know he's not going to breath a word of this anytime soon. And despite your late night pleas to the empty pillow next to you, and the prayers to the God you're not sure you even believe in, a part of you thinks he never will.

"So could you," he answers, and you simply roll your eyes and find the remaining articles of your clothing.

"That's not my responsibility."

Which isn't exactly a lie, because you're not responsible, but you're not exactly innocent, either. He was the one who was married. He was the one who was breaking promises he had made. She was just a willing participant.

But they, _they _were the ones she was going to hate.

You kissed him on the cheek before you left the hotel room, leaving him with only his thoughts and an empty bed.

_Why don't you stay_

_I'm down on my knees_

_I'm so tired of being lonely_

_Don't I give you what you need?_

_When she calls you to go_

_There is one thing you should know_

_We don't have to live this way_

_Baby, why don't you stay_

It's a week before you see him again. And you hate yourself for it, but you find yourself missing him like you've never missed anyone before. Which is ridiculous, because you seem him every single day.

The nights are just an added bonus that you've somehow come to rely on.

You're the one waiting alone in the hotel room this time, and you've taken the liberty of ordering a bottle of wine. You decide against the champagne, because at this point a celebratory drink would almost seem disrespectful.

He walks in and smiles at you as he meets you on the bed, a sigh escaping his lips as he falls onto the mattress and drapes his arm across your sprawled out legs. He pulls his phone out and you give him a glare, telling yourself that this is it—you're _done. _

But then he turns his phone off and lets it fall to the ground, and you can't hide the smile that is forming on your lips.

He turns so he's lying on top of you, and you hold each other's gaze for what seems like eternity. He presses his lips to yours in a way that he's never done; it's long and drawn out, and his hand is caressing your cheek as you moan into his lips.

And you're not sure if he will stay, but knowing that he won't be leaving because of her makes it hurt a little bit less.

_She can't love you like me_

_She can't love you like me_

You don't know why you're surprised when things go back to the way they were. You know you were foolish to think things could change, because the situation hadn't.

You were in love with a man who, no matter how much he _says_ he wants to, can never give you everything you want—let alone everything you need.

It's been a year when you think she's finally puts the pieces of the puzzle together. You're surprised it took her this long, but then you remember that denial is a very strong coping mechanism.

You're the expert on that, after all.

She vaguely brings it up over lunch one day, and you have to hand it to her—she handles it with an amount of class that is almost sickening. And once again, you wonder why you're surprised, because Stacy Warner is nothing but classy.

And you always liked her, even if your actions didn't reflect it.

"I guess we all have our vices," she says as she forks through her salad.

You look up, your eyes wide and afraid as she continues.

"House has his vicodin, I have my law books, you have…things you're not supposed to."

"Stacy…" you begin, although you're not sure why, because you don't have much else to say. An apology seems like it would be a slap to the face at this point—because you both know you're anything but sorry.

"I'm not asking you to stop," she continues, and you pause, eyeing her suspiciously. "I just want to warn you, because this is going to end badly for all parties involved."

She was worried about _your_ feelings.

"Being in love with someone who is incapable of loving you back in the way that you need him to is hard, and I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. But you're not my enemy. Despite everything, you're my friend. And I don't want to see you get hurt."

You drop the fork to your salad. The only thing you can taste at this point is the salt from the sting of the tears that are trickling down your face, and you have to look away because you know she has a sympathetic look on her face.

"House has loved two people in his life," she says, and your breath hitches at the tense she has unconsciously chosen, "and by the looks of it, he's burned both of them. So be careful, Lisa."

You find yourself at a loss for words again. So you simply nod and blink away the tears.

"Thank you," you mutter, although you're not exactly sure what you're thanking her for. Her blessing? Her warning? You don't know and you're too emotionally exhausted to try and figure it out.

Instead you turn your attention back to your salad, grateful that she does the same.

_It's too much pain to have to bear_

_To love a man you have to share_

He knows that she knows. You know that she knows. And yet, nothing has really changed.

Your bed is still empty at night, even though your heart is fuller than it's ever been.

It takes over a year and a half for you to decide that it's time. You were supposed to be at the hotel over fifteen minutes ago, but you haven't moved from the chair in your office in what felt like hours.

You pick up the phone and hang up twice before you finally make the call. You know you should drive over there and do this face to face, but you can't seem to move from the chair.

So you dial.

_I can't take it any longer_

_But my will is getting stronger_

_And I think I know just what I have to do_

He knows what you're doing the second he answers the phone. He tries to tell you that you're wrong, that things will be different, that _he _will be different—but you've heard the story before, and your mind is made up.

You both know that nothing will change until _everything_ changes, and only one of you had the ability to do that.

_I don't like being used and I'm tired of waiting_

_So why don't you stay_

"You're not losing me," you say, and you have to close your eyes because it's the only thing keeping you going, and you take a deep breath as you force yourself to say the words that are already breaking your heart, "You never really had me. Because I never really had you."

_So the next time you find, you wanna leave her bed for mine_

_Why don't you stay_

_I'm up off my knees_

_I'm so tired of being lonely_

_You can't give me what I need_

_When she begs you not to go_

_There is one thing you should know_

_I don't have to live this way_

_Baby, why don't you stay. _

You don't tell her that it's over the next time that you have lunch. But you assume that he does. You almost hope that he does, because then maybe you won't have to talk about it with her.

But she doesn't say a word.

So every week you suffer through a salad that you swear is making you sick, but you don't dare call the lunches off. Because you know Stacy needs you, and after everything you've put her through, it's the least you can do.

She's grateful for your company, and in a way you're grateful for hers. But you don't talk about him, or anything personal for that matter. Some days you don't even speak at all.

And she silently thanks you when you don't mention the fact that she is no longer wearing her wedding band.

_It's too much pain to bear_

_To love a man you have to share_

He shows up at your door a month after you break it off. Two weeks after Stacy stopped wearing her wedding ring.

You open the door, your hair a mess and your forehead sweaty from the hour you spent doing yoga in attempts to calm yourself down.

But you can't help but smile at him. And he can't help but smile back.

"What are you doing here?" you ask, your arms folded across your chest as you try to mask the feelings of bliss that are surging through your bones.

"You're wrong," he says, and you roll your eyes because he's not really answering your question. "You're under the impression that you never had me, but you did. You had me like no has ever had me before. And it scared me, so I did the thing I normally do when I'm scared. I pushed you away."

"It's hard to push someone away when you never let them in in the first place," you fire back. You watch as he steps closer, and a part of you wants to shut the door in his face, but a bigger part of you wants to wrap your arms around his neck and never let go.

But you refrain, because impulse is what landed you in this situation in the first place.

"You only want me when you can't have me," you say. "And it's not fair to drag me along like this, not anymore."

"That doesn't really explain why I'm on your doorstep, does it? And it was never fair. The way I treated you was wrong and I'm…sorry." He's coming closer to you and you realize that you're not stopping him, because as long as you've known him, you're not sure you've heard him say those words. "We're getting divorced. And I know it's a year and half too late, but I thought you should know."

You nod and uncross your arms when you notice the backpack that is hanging off of his shoulder.

He's inches away from you when you finally break. You throw your arms around his neck and his hand finds the small of your back, pulling you closer to him.

You can't help but smile when he whispers into your ear:

"Mind if I stay the night?"

* * *

_Thoughts? Like I said, it's different from the way I usually right, but I thought the second-person narrative was appropriate for the amount of emotion that was explored in this. Leave a review to let me know what you think!_

_-Alison_


End file.
